Blood
by ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe
Summary: This was my entry for the Sherlock's Home: An Empty House competition run by Sherlockology for the Save Undershaw project. Sherlock realises that there are some things that even he can't fix, and one of those is John. Warning: character death.


**Blood**

**To make up for my horrendously long absence from the world of FanFiction, I thought I would share with you something I wrote a little while ago. It's quite different to my usual, and was my entry for the Sherlock's Home book competition run by Sherlockology. The only rules were that it had to only involve ACD canon characters, so I went for the straightforward Sherlock and John. Unfortunately, I didn't win, so my name isn't in print, but I'm still really proud of it, and decided to show you guys as well.  
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**Warning: character death. I cried while writing it. Written from Sherlock's POV.**

Blood. Spreading across the pavement like a crimson Rorschach test, seeping into the cracks in the concrete, a seemingly unending stream of red. It's strange to watch another person's life literally drain away. Studying someone as they die...it's almost empowering; a sense of horrified, morbid victory overtakes you as you see the physical proof that you have outlived another. It is a callous triumph, and one I have experienced all too often.

A man. Introduced by a mutual acquaintance, instantly trusting and loyal. He was everything a man should be – courageous, noble, kind-hearted. He was everything I was not – where he was courageous, I was arrogant; where he was noble, I was selfish beyond belief; where he was kind-hearted, I caged my heart in an almost impenetrable box. His faith in me was unjustified, yet I never told him to leave, to protect himself from the jeopardy I would undoubtedly subject him to. I had starved myself of human contact for so long that I found myself craving attention, and I took all that he offered and more.

Friends. A peculiar concept. A family member with no blood ties, a partner in so many ways in return for nothing more than companionship. Friends can be dangerous: one wrong move and you may find yourself with a dagger in your back. Name the right price, or offer the right motivation and all your innermost secrets are spilled in a moment. To be a friend (or indeed, to have friends) is easier than to be an enemy, but has the potential to be a million times more destructive.

Weakness. In my mind, this is linked directly to emotion. Love makes you blind, trust leaves you vulnerable, and hatred causes irrationality. If you feel, you become fragile – susceptible to the charms of others, exposed to the sentiment of strangers' lives. I have always prided myself on my ability to keep myself divorced from feeling, and subsequently blocked the fallibility which comes hand in hand with sentiment.

Blood. A man. Friends. Weakness.

I am weak. I allowed him into my life. At first, he was nothing more than the other person to contribute to the monthly rent payment to the enigmatic Mrs Hudson. His instant faith in me, however, made me relax, and I let my guard down. In that split second, the man entered me – getting under my skin and lodging there like a stubborn splinter. Gradually, I would catch myself smiling when he did. I'd laugh in unison with him. Whenever that troubled, haunted look crossed his face, I'd worry. He made me weak, and yet I never pushed him away – I yearned for his company as much as I yearned for danger. I could have ended this months ago, and I would not be in this position now. I didn't, and I am.

He became a friend. We both had our demons – both physical and mental. He was sent home from a warzone, crippled for the sake of his country. I was trapped in a warzone of my own making – locked in my mind, at battle with myself. Whenever I found myself concerned with his welfare, I put my own at risk. He knew me better than anyone else, and that was perilous. He could be my greatest ally, or most feared foe. However, in befriending me, the person put most at risk...was him.

He was just a man. A man named Doctor John Watson. The greatest man I have ever met, and will ever meet. A man who followed me blindly, accepted me regardless of all my faults, certain that I knew what I was doing: that I had foreseen every possible outcome, and evaluated that the threat was worth the adrenaline. And he was right. I had considered every risk, and visualised every outcome. But the lure of adventure had overpowered my common sense – I was so concerned with staving off boredom that I became reckless. My impulsiveness led us to this backstreet in East London, to this stand-off with a hardened and heartless criminal. It led to Doctor John Watson taking a bullet for me.

It's his blood. Pouring from a gaping hole in his chest, a constant drain on his life. My over-analytical mind told me within seconds of the event that the bullet had pierced his heart, and that his chances of survival were less than 0.05%, allowing for favourable circumstances such as the hasty arrival of medical care. In spite of this, for the first time in my life, my heart took leadership over my head. I dropped to my knees, cradling his head in my lap, clutching his hands over his bleeding heart, praying to some higher force to spare him.

Here I am now. Holding my one and only true friend as his life slowly ebbs from him, unable to offer any form of comfort or salvation.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Don't look anywhere but me." I order, swallowing the unexpected lump in my throat. He laughs weakly, the chuckle followed by an alarming gurgling noise.

"Who'd have thought? The great Sherlock Holmes, crying over another man. That will do nothing to abate the rumours, my friend." I try to salvage my stoic front.

"I'm not crying. This is fascinating for me, actually...the spread of blood from a gunshot wound is very difficult to accurately recreate on a cadaver. Invaluable to many cases, Doctor." The emotions are swarming over me like a tsunami, a new and novel experience for me, the self-proclaimed sociopath.

"If you experiment on my corpse, I swear to God I will come back to haunt you until the end of your days." John snarls the threat, but his wry smile gives him away. He's too frail to be truly angry.

"I look forward to it." I comment dryly, not attempting to alleviate the apparent severity of the situation. He's a medical man. He knows there is no hope for him now, and it would have been foolish of me to convince him otherwise.

"Sherlock." The twinkle of laughter fades from his eyes as his grasps my hands with remarkable strength for a dying man, wincing as another wave of pain wracks his broken body. "Thank you."

"For what?" I can feel my composure cracking.

"For saving me." He says solemnly and I scoff derisively.

"Saving you? I've hardly saved you. Without me, you would never have found yourself in this situation. You took a bullet so I wouldn't end up with one in my chest. If anything, I'm the one to have killed you." A sob escapes my throat and I choke on the unfamiliar sensation.

"No, Sherlock." He gasps, his breathing becoming increasingly strained. "You saved me...from myself. Without you...I would be nothing more...than a lonely man on an ar-" He coughs again, a small amount of blood colouring his lips, and then continues. "-an army pension, but you showed me...the world...in a way I could never have seen it on my own."

"Shut up John. You know how I despise sentiment." I say gruffly as a tear drops from my eye onto his forehead. He smiles gently.

"Sherlock." His breath rattles in his chest. The light leaves his eyes. Doctor John Watson...is dead.

I softly pass my hand over his weathered face, and when I remove it, his eyes are closed, and he could be sleeping. I take off my coat and drape it over the jagged rip in his chest. I bend over him, pressing my lips to his ear. Hearing is the last sense to leave. "Thank **you**, John. For being everything I'm not, and for being the best man in my life. You saved **me** from **myself**." Eloquence deserts me, and I stand, letting his head drop lightly onto the pavement. I pause for a moment, my head bowed.

"Goodbye, Doctor John Watson." I murmur, my extensive vocabulary failing me in this moment of crippling loss.

I turn my back on him and walk; past Lestrade and Mycroft, who somehow arrived without my knowing; past the flashing blue lights and emergency vehicles who arrived too late to help; past the man being wrestled to the ground, a gun being prised from his grip. I walk past everything and into the oncoming traffic.

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